


Contamination

by Geriatricfool



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geriatricfool/pseuds/Geriatricfool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Spock first meet Leila? References to This Side Of Paradise; it may be helpful to have seen that episode, but it can be read without.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contamination

CONTAMINATION

ONE

Spock stepped out of the principle transporter terminal in Central Seattle, Earth. A fierce gust of icy wind battered at his ribs and cryogenised his neck before he had any chance to rally his physical defences. He had been warned; it was cold, they had said, yet he had not fully understood the words. It’s January, they had told him, unnecessarily, as he, like all Vulcans, had perfect time sense and certainly understood the Terran system of marking the months of the year. But none of the words had conveyed the full extent of it, to a Vulcan, in North America, in January. You remember, Amanda had said. We went there for Grandpa’s sixtieth birthday. But that had been a long time ago and it had not, he was sure, been this cold on that occasion.

He moved purposefully towards the hover ranks, his holdall clutched in his left hand, his eyes skimming the indicator lights until he saw a free cab. He also saw another man approaching, a businessman judging by his apparel. A busy and efficient looking man. Spock deliberately and shamelessly summoned every ounce of combined Vulcan and Starfleet dominance and channeled it in its entirety through his eyes as he speared the opposition with his glance. The busy efficient man immediately found something very interesting to go and look at on the other side of the concourse; Spock stepped into the vacant cab and managed to stifle his sigh of relief as the freezing wind abruptly ceased. He keyed in his credit, and “583 Ayn Avenue,” he said into the voice grill. The cab lifted and set off, and Spock leaned back in his seat and waited for his hands and nose to thaw. 

He was aware of a low level hum of unease, for which he forgave himself, and he made little effort to deny or suppress it; it increased in volume as he stepped out of the cab at his destination and assumed the dimension of what he might have termed a panic in another, in a Terran; in someone other than himself. 

He was at the gate.

The sharp cold helped him. It cooled him, calmed him, and gave him a focus as he drew all his shields close around him and retreated into his familiar sanctuary. Only then did he put his hand over the door alert and speak into the grill. “Spock here,” he announced, aware of the possibility that his harsh, clipped and officious tone was entirely inappropriate for the occasion. 

“Spock!!” The high shrill greeting made him jump. “Mama,” the voice became slightly distorted, as though the speaker was turning away from the indoor grill. “He’s here! Grandma!” The gate swung slowly open, and he forced himself against all his flight instincts to step through into the broad graveled courtyard beyond. As his booted feet crunched across the neatly swept gravel, the big double door of the house opened and a young blond woman stepped out and smiled at him. “Spock,” she said again, in her real unamplified voice this time. “Good to see you. Come in out of the cold, quickly. It’s enough to freeze the….” As if remembering who she was talking to, she paused, her eyes widened, and then she beamed again more broadly. “Come on in, you must be cold.”

Estelle. The younger twin. The sixteen minutes difference in age between Estelle and her older sister Georgia was entirely irrelevant to either woman, yet he knew it and therefore it was catalogued there in his mind. Twenty eight years and three months old. One of his cousins. “Estelle,” he said, and bowed his head in greeting. Estelle moved aside and Spock stepped past her into the high ceilinged entrance hall of the house he remembered only distantly, from the two long-ago boyhood visits to his mother’s girlhood home. 

Something struck his leg from behind, and he staggered forward a little before regaining balance and equilibrium. “Proust!” Estelle shouted, inexplicably, until he realised that she was addressing a yellow coloured canid with shaggy curly fur and a flailing tail which threatened to do damage. “Sit! Spock,” she went on, her voice softening at the second word, “ I am so sorry – he was supposed to be shut away until you got settled. Do come and…”

“Spock? How are you?” A young man approached him with a wide smile and a hand outstretched. Dale. Cousin. Cousin to Estelle and Georgia. Son to his aunt Alice. The outstretched hand brooked no argument, and Spock cautiously reached out and shook it gently. He was aware out of the corner of his eye that Estelle was gesticulating fiercely with bared teeth and shaking head, which she tried unsuccessfully to change into a frantic smile when Spock turned to look at her. Even more confusingly, he could see that the young man was responding to her with equally bizarre expressions which he too then tried to conceal. 

The canid leaned heavily against his leg and its tail slapped repeatedly against the holdall which was still clutched in his left hand. Spock found himself retreating into the state of alertness more normally associated with a red alert on his ship. The unpredictability of events here required every bit as much attention as a hostile attack from…

“Spock.”

That was a voice he did recognise, and he turned towards his grandmother with the kind of relief that an inexperienced crew may feel when their Captain takes control during an unexpected alien bombardment. Evelyn Grayson seemed…. smaller than he remembered, and she leaned on a cane as she crossed the flagged hall, but it was her all the same. “Grandmother,” he said. His voice croaked.

“Grandmother?” She came up close to him, halting only when her cane met the very tip of his toe. She raised her eyebrows. “Grandmother? Spock, it used to be Grandma.”

His mouth opened. Then he closed it again and swallowed hard.

“Never mind,” she said. “Come on through. I think you’ll find that it’s very much as you remember…” She continued speaking as she turned and moved towards the broad double doors which opened from the entrance hall, and the little group followed; Spock at her right elbow, Proust the golden canid prancing around them and knocking against his legs, and the young man and woman following on behind. The two spoke to each other in surreptitious hisses as they walked.

“I told you - they don’t shake hands!”

“Jeeeez, Stelli, no-one’s died. Just let it go.”

“Oh for God’s sake….”

Spock had sharp hearing.

“I am so sorry that Georgia couldn’t be here when you arrived,” his grandmother was saying as they moved into the large and airy drawing room. “She had to take the children to a birthday party. They’ll be back soon. Clara, Owen, Spock’s here.” This last astonishingly unnecessary, in view of the highly audible excitement engendered by his arrival, but she was ever one for the courtesies. Spock’s aunt, his mother’s elder sister, rose to her feet and came towards him with both hands outstretched and a smile which, to his untutored eyes, looked completely genuine. 

“Spock, how wonderful to see you again. And haven’t you changed! You look so grown up! And how was Amanda when you left her? Was she well?”

“Ah,” to his shame, Spock found himself involuntarily looking to his grandmother for support at this most unexpected of questions. No verbal support was forthcoming, but her eyes were encouraging and he continued. “I…. have not seen my mother for two years and 61 days. I came here direct from my ship.” There was a pause, which no-one in the family filled, and so he filled it himself. “She was however well at my last tape from her, when we finalized my visit here.”

This seemed to be the right thing to say, as the atmosphere melted and Clara’s smile grew even broader. “Owen? She turned towards her husband, who stood, hands behind his back, and bowed his head slightly. 

“Spock.” His eyes met Spock’s, who wondered if he’d imagined the merest of winks. He certainly didn’t imagine his cousin’s assertion of “There, Dale, that’s how you’re supposed to do it!”

“For God’s sake Stelli…”

“Will you two stop it! Spock, do come and sit down. Proust, sit! Shall we have some coffee? Estelle, would you…? You can put your bag down anywhere, we’ll show you your room in a minute. Owen, move along will you? Oh, thank you. Spock, do sit down.” She patted the sofa next to her.

He perched on the edge of the sofa, and buried the burgeoning panic before it could take hold. The yellow canid – dog, that terminology would be expected of him - sat at his knee and stared up at him. Its tongue was hanging out. His uncle by marriage returned to some reading he had evidently been doing before Spock’s arrival and paid no further attention to proceedings. A part of Spock’s mind was appalled at the lack of courtesy to a family guest. Another part was profoundly relieved. Estelle, whom he had not noticed leave the room, re entered holding a tray bearing cups, a crystal jug and a plate with some kind of confection on it. Spock stared at it.

“Who’ll have some coffee? Spock, I know you don’t often take it – would you prefer water? Estelle, are you doing the honours – oh good, thank you, dear.” And a potentially difficult moment was gone as though it had never been. The family busied itself with organizing the correct distribution of beverage, and the canid continued to sit by his knee and stare. “Spock, I am so glad you could come. Amanda was so unhappy that she couldn’t be here, and it makes so much difference knowing that you’re here in her place. It means a lot to all of us.” 

Estelle was offering him a piece of confection, and the refusal of the cake afforded Spock a moment or two to compose a reply to this speech, which he guessed, correctly, was of considerable import to his grandmother and had probably been planned. He turned sideways to face her. “It is an honour…Grandma,” he said. He did not know whether her answering smile was in response to his statement or to his use of the childhood nomenclature, but clearly he had greatly pleased her with these five words. He decided to go for broke. “I remember my grandfather; he was a man of integrity and ….humanity. I regret his passing.”

Spock slammed up his shields at the otherwise overwhelming wave of emotion his stilted speech had engendered, to the extent that he was unable to gauge the reaction of the family, but his grandmother’s suddenly watery gaze fixed upon his face suggested that it had been judged appropriate. He nodded, unwilling to risk any further comments in case he blew what he’d gained so far; yet it didn’t matter, as the family had taken his words as a signal to embark on reminiscences of Professor David Grayson, recently deceased, and the ensuing and upbeat conversation ranged around the room without his further contribution . Spock sat, his hands clasped together between his tightly closed knees, his back straight. He knew himself to be utterly exhausted. After only a few moments in the company of his family…..

The outside door burst open. Many footsteps sounded in the entrance hall. Proust the dog hurled himself wildly through the double doors out of the sitting room, barking repeatedly in a piercing pitch. “Proust!!” It seemed to be a commonly used exclamation here. “Sit!!” Proust took no more notice of the newcomer’s command than he had of anyone else’s since Spock’s arrival and continued to shred Spock’s nerves with his barking. He then returned once more through the sitting room doors, this time walking backwards, with a small female child attached to his neck. “Pooss!” she was squealing, in a pitch almost as injurious to his ears as the dog’s barking. Unable to see, since he was staggering backwards with his face completely covered by the child, Proust complete with his flailing tail reversed towards an attractive low occasional table on which had been placed the tray with the cups, cakes and crystal jug. Probably Waterford, Spock reflected, even as Vulcan reflexes propelled him into an interception course between dog and coffee cups and food. He arrived at the table at the same time as the tail, and shielded the collection with his body, while one of the newcomers worked to haul dog and child away to safety. “Spock, you life saver! Thank you!” said the woman he remembered to be Georgia, sister to Estelle and the last of his three cousins. “How are you?” she went on, detaching her daughter from the dog’s ears as she spoke.

Spock reflected that she probably did not really want him to tell her how he was at that moment. “I am well, Georgia, thank you. And…”

“I said I had a cousin who was a Vulcan and Greg said I couldn’t cos Vulcan’s are smart and I’m not smart but I have got one, a real one! Boy, wait til Greg sees you!”

“Finbar! That is very rude! Say hello nicely to Spock.”

Boy and Vulcan faced each other in the centre of the room. Spock looked down at the ever widening eyes of the child in front of him. Finbar had apparently been struck dumb as the close proximity of a real Vulcan hit home, and Spock felt an illogical shaft of pity for the boy, required as he too had been so many times in the past to perform for assembled relatives. He used his eidetic memory to sort through Finbar’s otherwise incomprehensible opening speech and made a stab at its meaning. “You can assure… Greg?... that you do indeed have a real Vulcan as a cousin, and that therefore you must be extremely… smart.” 

After a moment’s worrying silence a gale of astonished laughter greeted his words, laughter from everyone except the little girl, who was still crossly trying to escape her mother’s clutches and return to the dog, and Finbar, who gazed up at him with an expression which everyone but Spock could identify unmistakably as one of dawning hero-worship. No-one seemed to notice that he had not yet said hello nicely to his real Vulcan cousin, but it was presumably deemed unnecessary now. The dog was moved to safety, minus the child attachment, and Georgia and Estelle were discussing domestic details to do with meals and bed times. “Spock,” said Evelyn Grayson, and as always the whole room listened. “Let’s show you to your room. You must be tired.” Neither the words nor the tone invited contradiction.

In the event, a veritable procession conducted Spock to his room. Dale leapt to offer, and Estelle was not going to be left out. Finbar seemed unwilling to permit more than one metre’s distance to elapse between himself and his new-found cousin, so he too climbed the broad staircase. Proust would have brought up the rear, had it not been for Violet, who escaped her mother’s clutches and took the stairs on all fours in pursuit of the madly excited golden retriever. Spock was so bewildered as to what was expected of him in the midst of what seemed to be a carnival in place of a family, that he retreated even more tightly into that place of safety which manifested, to all except those very few who knew him well, as the facially immobile and emotionally shuttered Perfect Vulcan.

None of them noticed. Estelle got there first and opened the door wide. “Here you are.” She paused, and smiled excitedly at him. “It was Amanda’s room!” She gestured for him to enter. He did so, noting the slightly old fashioned furnishings which denoted a room seldom used except for visitors. The space was wide and airy. The colours were bland and neutral. He moved towards the bed.

“Purr and miaow,” said Finbar. 

Spock turned to look at the small boy. He knew that he had done well with Finbar’s last pronouncement, but this one was so utterly beyond him that he made no attempt even to try to translate. He simply allowed the Perfect Vulcan gaze to rest upon the child, and remained silent. Estelle however stepped into the breach.

“Sorry Spock, do you have any problem with cats? Proust! Out!”

The Perfect Vulcan gaze was transferred to the older cousin, just as silently. It was getting worse. He wondered if they were all in fact either going insane or, indeed, and quite possibly, had already got there. He further wondered why his mother had not even begun to hint at what was ahead of him when he had agreed to take her place at the memorial service. She had never mentioned these familial disabilities….

One of the cushions on the bed sat up, stretched, yawned and turned to look at him with wide baleful green eyes. The other cat, also not apparently a cushion after all, stretched itself as well and then shifted further into the space vacated by its fellow, without apparently waking. “Cats,” said Spock, comprehension dawning. “You have cats.”

“The black one’s Purr and the stripy one’s Miaow,” said Finbar, helpfully. “Miaow scratches,” he added.

An explanation; and his family were not insane as he had genuinely feared. Not as insane, at any rate, and all looking at him, apparently awaiting some kind of reply. He slowly shook his head. “I…have no problem with cats,” he replied hesitantly. “At least,” he appended, with honesty, “not as far as I am aware.”

“I didn’t know they’d got in. But they like it here, it’s quiet. Well,” Estelle smiled at him again, “at least, it was.”

It was dawning on Spock that Estelle, and indeed all of his Human family here assembled, were doing their very best to make him welcome and to be kind and friendly. He was realizing that their intentions were to a man, or woman or child or dog, benign. The responsibility was frightening, dizzying; and in a sense truly awesome. They, and his absent mother, were reaching out to include him. This carried its own set of expectations, which he had not foreseen. This required meditation. He required meditation. He slowly and carefully placed his holdall on the floor by his feet, straightened again to his customary almost military stance, and looked around at the family. 

“I thank you all for your kindness,” he said. “I…am grateful.” He paused, and then decided that it was acceptable to continue, “I would like to rest now. Perhaps I will see you later?”

A babble of nods and smiles and expressions of agreement met this suggestion, and the group moved towards the bedroom door. Estelle then came back and retrieved Finbar, who had apparently assumed that the subtly worded dismissal had not included him and had not budged. “Proust! Down!” was the last he heard from them, before the door closed behind them and he was finally, blessedly, left alone. His eyes closed, and his sigh of relief was long, and private, and heartfelt beyond description.

 

TWO

Spock came to full wakefulness, woken by a sound he could not place. A rumbling and vibrating. In each ear. Accompanied by warmth. 

Purr, he realised. And Miaow.

He sat up gingerly, leaving a space much the size of his own head between the two cats, who had apparently spent the night nestled on either side of him. One of them opened an eye and glared at him. Spock glared back, and the feline eye closed once more.

He now had no choice but to get up. Lying down again and attempting to squeeze his head between two sleeping cats would be too absurd. Spock swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat, and mentally regrouped. 

His meditation the night before had been beneficial. The well-meaning onslaught of his family the day before had been overwhelming for him, but a period of deep meditation until late into the night had provided the detachment and tranquility necessary to permit him even to contemplate leaving the sanctuary of his, of his mother’s, room and rejoining the cacophonous life below. It was, he reminded himself, for a limited period only. Two more days, then the memorial service, and then he was free to return to his ship. He had been through more challenging experiences, many times.

“Proust! Get down!” 

The voice with its already too familiar chant intruded on him from downstairs. Estelle. 

Spock sighed; and wondered how long he could get away with staying hidden in his room. The answer was supplied almost immediately, with the sound of many feet climbing the stairs and thundering towards his bedroom door.

“Spock. Are you awake?”

Bark.

“Shush, Proust. Are you awake Spock?”

Spock opened the bedroom door and looked down at the four eager eyes peering up at him. “Good morning, Finbar.”

“You’re awake!”

“Evidently.” The sarcasm was lost on the diminutive second cousin. Proust’s feathery tail lashed enthusiastically from side to side. “I will come downstairs…” he hesitated…”in due course.”

“There’s apricots for breakfast! And honey. Violet’s been sick! Mama….”

“Finbar.” The Vulcan command tone brought a temporary halt to the stream of domestic news from below stairs. The child gazed up at him, and Spock found the adoration uncomfortable to absorb. “I will see you downstairs. I need to get ready.” He paused, but nothing happened. “Finbar, return downstairs now. And take…Proust…with you.”

Finbar nodded energetically, and turned towards the staircase. “See you in a minute,” he called cheerily as he ran down the stairs, followed by the dog. Spock’s door closed sharply, and the Vulcan took a moment to lean against it, eyes closed, head bowed, searching within himself for the strength required to contend with several days of enthusiastic familial assistance and inclusion. Yet again, and not for the last time, he sighed. He had clearly been optimistic in the extreme about the beneficial effects of last night’s meditation. A few moments in the company of Finbar had revealed that it hadn’t even scratched the surface.

He jumped, as he felt something brush against his ankle, and he looked down. Miaow was standing by the door looking up at him. He opened the door. Miaow walked silently out on to the landing. He closed the door again.

There came a quiet but demanding squeak, from the vicinity of the same ankle. Spock opened the door again to let Purr follow her friend, and then closed it firmly against them both. He sat on the bed and leaned back against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He steepled his fingers in front of his face, and prepared to descend once more into meditation. Finbar’s apricots and honey, and indeed Finbar himself, would have to wait.

 

Spock did make it down to breakfast. He was seated between his grandmother and his cousin Georgia, to the evident disappointment of Finbar, who sulked for a short while. He declined coffee again and accepted some orange juice and some fruit, and explained to those who commented that Vulcans seldom ate substantially at First Meal; or indeed at any other meal. As he picked at his food he experimentally allowed the sound of conversation to wash around and over him, hearing without listening, noting without attaching, as one might with the babble of other peoples’ children or the snuffles and barks of a dog at play. He began to detect patterns and predominant features in the conversations, all of which seemed to carry on concurrently, everyone talking over the others and no-one expressing surprise or offence at this elementary breach of etiquette. 

Spock was beginning to get used to his family.

“Spock,” said Evelyn Grayson, as she poured herself another cup of coffee with a firm and steady hand. Spock found himself in reverie; illogically, he had found himself making a connection between his grandmother’s apparent good health and an optimistic prognosis for his mother’s future well being. He caught himself, and returned his attention to his grandmother, who had continued speaking. “I’ve arranged to go over to the University Halls today to go over arrangements for the service with Hugo. Would you like to come with me?”

Spock’s head tilted a little to one side. “Hugo?”

“Professor Hugo Lister. He was Grandpa’s second in command, in a way.” Estelle passed a plate of croissants along the table towards her father, who still had his nose in a padd, even at breakfast. “He’ll probably apply for the Chair. Grandpa thought very highly of him.”

“He was gutted when Grandpa died,” Georgia joined in. “He said he wanted to organize the memorial for him. Hugo’s a sweetie.”

“My mother delivered a paper on Professor Lister’s work on Indo-European syntactic changes,” said Spock. “She holds his work in high esteem.”

Yet again, he seemed to have hit the mark, as all around the table beamed, with the exception of Owen of course. “He was so disappointed that Amanda wasn’t able to come. But he was very glad that you could attend for her.” Evelyn’s hand reached out towards him, and he froze at the prospect of her touch; but she was simply reaching for the milk jug which was near his elbow. “Why don’t you come over to day and meet him. You can have a look around the University – I’m sure you’ll find parts of it very interesting. I can arrange an all-areas pass for you.”

He went, of course. Evelyn Grayson had suggested it, after all. And, while they waited for the hover to be brought round, he did reflect that it would perhaps be an easier and certainly more interesting way to pass the day than listening repeatedly to one member of the family or another telling the dog to sit down, or fending off Finbar. Spock helped his grandmother into the rather luxuriously appointed hover and then climbed in next to her, and they moved off towards the university, Estelle and Georgia waving as they lifted off. To his relief, Evelyn kept the conversation general and impersonal during the short journey, and Spock was able to reply to any remarks with non committal nods whilst looking at the wintry city architecture as it flew by outside the hover window. Through his mind, moving in and out as they travelled, was his mother’s briefly wistful expression as she told him that he was going to have to check out her old home town for her as she was unable to do so. Her voice and face were playful; he knew that she was serious. He watched the city go by, ready for when he had the chance to tell her about it.

They arrived at the university and, not surprisingly, Evelyn’s name and passcode got them in without delay. They stood in the centre of a vaulting and heart-stirringly graceful atrium and watched Hugo Lister approach them, past the fountain and across the shimmering tiles. “Evelyn,” he said, his hands outstretched towards her. She smiled and took his hands in hers. 

“Thank you so much again, Hugo,” she said, giving the hands a squeeze. “I won’t keep you too long, I know you’re busy.”

“I’ve cleared the afternoon Evelyn,” he said. “At your disposal,” he added with a warm smile, and then turned towards Spock. “Your presence honours us,” he said, in perfect and unaccented Vulcan.

Spock hoped he would be forgiven for showing surprise at the manner of Lister’s greeting. The man was after all a pre-eminent linguist; but a Human nevertheless. He stood, hands behind his back, and bowed his head. He tried to ignore the appraising look that Lister was giving him, straightened and faced the man. “My mother expressed great regrets that she can not be here, to meet you and to honour her father.”

“Indeed,” said Lister. “I hope I will have the opportunity to talk with her soon.”

“Spock,” said his grandmother. “I’m going to talk to Hugo about the arrangements for the service. Do you want to look around the university? I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”

Trying not to feel like a child who had been asked to run away and play, Spock bowed slightly again and turned and walked in the direction of the elevators at the far side of the atrium. In truth, he did want to look around and, in even more truth, had little or no interest in the minutiae of his grandfather’s memorial service. Yet it took a moment or two to shake off the feeling that he had just been dismissed. He stepped inside the nearest elevator and, making use of the university map which he had that morning memorised with a glance, he directed the lift to the science area.

Lister had said that he had placed his afternoon at the disposal of Evelyn Grayson, so Spock knew he had time to wander, to explore, to peer and poke and to enjoy himself in the wondrously equipped physics labs of Seattle State University. Evelyn’s all-areas pass held good, and no-one either wanted to or dared to question the presence of the sombre silent Vulcan in their midst. When eventually his curiosity got the better of him and he simply had to ask a technician about his methodology and results, he found the team delighted to show off their project, and time passed in deep and obstruse discussion which pleased and benefited both research scientists and Vulcan visitors. Only when the team had to close down and leave to attend a seminar did Spock tear himself away and wander off away from the science area. He judged he still had approximately one hour and fifty three minutes until he would be required to accompany his grandmother back to the house. He looked up at the images above the elevators, and found himself drawn towards the rooftop conservatories. Conservatories would undoubtedly involve heat, and January Seattle was never far from his consciousness. He directed the elevator, and stepped out into a tropical jungle which immediately warmed his body and spirit.

It was far more humid than his own desert homeworld, but the instant heat, intense for most Humans but pleasantly warm to a Vulcan, relaxed him as no meditation had done since his arrival in Seattle. He wandered, contentedly aimless, gazing idly at fecund alien trees and shrubs which crowded onto the carefully designed pathways. His step, by training and upbringing, was as silent as ever; when he rounded a corner and came across a girl standing back from a hibiscus-like shrub, her head on one side and clippers in hand, clearly appraising the result of her pruning, she had no idea he was there until she chanced to turn and see him just behind her.

Her shriek was piercing and she dropped the clippers.

They both scrabbled on the ground for them and they both apologised. “I should have….”

“No, I should have been paying attention…”

“You were paying attention to your task…” He passed her the clippers. She took them with a smile, and brushed her thick long blond hair back from her face, leaving a streak of soil which Spock realised she had no idea was there. 

When he further realised that he found it strangely endearing, an odd reflection and utterly illogical, he considered that he must be far more relaxed than he had thought.

He looked at the smear of earth across her cheek, and she smiled again, this time a little shyly, as they had both run out of apologies and had reached the point at which they must either part company or think of further conversation. “Would it sound silly – ahm, you are Vulcan?”

His head tilted fractionally to one side. “Not silly. I am a Vulcan.”

“Ah. It’s just that I’ve never met one before. Are you studying here?”

He shook his head, his eyes still drawn over and over to her face, her eyes, and that streak of dirt. “I am visiting. “ He glanced around him momentarily, and then asked, “Are you?”

“Studying here?” He nodded. “I’m finishing my doctorate in exobotany.”

He looked around him at the tidily rampant plant life pressing in on him. “All this is yours?”

She laughed. It was a friendly laugh, and he found that he did not resent it but instead enjoyed the sound. “No, they just pay me to maintain it. It’s a job. But it’s useful for me too. They indulge me when I want to introduce new plants just to see what will happen. This one,” she gestured behind her at the plant she’d been pruning before being startled by an unexpected Vulcan, “I wanted to see how she’d get on with him,” and she pointed with her clippers at a small, contained, cactus-like specimen with dark green and distinctly unfriendly looking spikes. She looked at Spock, and he could see from her expression that she was entirely serious, despite the fact that she sounded more like a dating agency than a post-graduate botanist. He looked at the two plants, and then back at her.

“And, does….she?”

The girl nodded vigorously. “he’s doubled his growth. He likes her. They said she’d smother him. I thought she wouldn’t.” She grinned; he stared back, fascinated, and wondering why he felt so fascinated. “What do you do?”

“Do?” He felt a little overwhelmed by the speed of this conversation with the enthusiastic and talkative botanist.

“Your job. Or are you studying somewhere else?” As she spoke, she was brushing soil off her hands and picking up a couple of other tools he hadn’t seen, sticking out from the dark loam. He found watching her compelling, and was confused at his own confusion. He looked at her as she straightened from the flower bed, and realised that her inquisitorial look was because he hadn’t yet replied. 

“I… am in Starfleet.”

The huge blue eyes opened even wider. “Starfleet! Oh, that’s wonderful! I so want to travel out to finish off my research. I so envy you. Are you on a ship? What do you do?”

He could not for the life of him understand why he didn’t find her continuous personal questions intrusive. The fact was though that he did not, and, as she turned to walk back towards the huge glass entrance doors, he fell into step next to her as though that was a natural thing to do. “I am Chief Science Officer on a Starship.”

She closed her eyes briefly and deliberately, and laughed again, this time ruefully. How did he know that it was a rueful laugh? “And I asked if you’re studying. You must have finished all that years ago, if you’re a Starship Science Officer. It’s just that you look…”

At that point, even she realised that her conversation was indeed straying towards the personal, and she trailed off. “Sorry,” she said, softly. He shook his head. 

“I am always studying.” They paused by the doors. “There is always something new.” She looked up at him, and the moment extended, until “I must go now,” he broke in.

“Me too. I’m working tonight. And tomorrow. All afternoon. I’m helping at some big memorial do they’re having.”

“Helping?”

“You know. Waitressing, that sort of thing. It all pays the rent.”

Spock looked down at the floor, and then back at the radiant dirt smeared blond girl who stood in front of him clutching clippers and trowels. “Then…I may see you there. It will be a memorial service for my grandfather.”

“No! That’s nice. I mean… I’m sorry for your loss…” Her embarrassment at her possible insensitivity was real. He bowed his head in acknowledgement of her expression of condolence, however perfunctory, but went on,

“I will look out for you. “ He paused. “Waitressing,” he said. She grinned again, and nodded. 

“Do that. Ah..” she hesitated, and then went on, “ what…is your name? So I can see if…”

They faced each other beneath arching glass, the late afternoon sun fragmenting around them on the surfaces and catching the blond of her hair. “I am Spock,” he replied.

She turned, and moved towards the further elevator. She spoke over her shoulder as she went. “I’m Leila. See you tomorrow.”

 

 

THREE

Spock was putting the finishing touches to his dress uniform. He was spending far longer over his appearance than he usually, in fact than he ever did, and he knew it. His room was quiet and by now felt restful to him, even after just three days. Other than the almost imperceptible purring sound of either Purr or Miaow, he neither knew nor cared which, the bedroom was silent. He was unwilling to descend the stairs and join the undisciplined host that was his family. Even he was aware that they were unlikely to set off for the memorial service of the much loved father of the house in their usual state of near hysterical exuberance, but he found himself drained and tired at the effort of maintaining his shields and of trying to understand what they were all talking about or indeed why they were bothering to say it.

He straightened the already perfectly straight collar of his blue satin dress tunic, checked the alignment of his valour decorations, and then bowed his head and sought readiness.

He opened his door, and moved out onto the landing and towards the head of the stairs.

“Spock!”

“Sshh, Finbar. Hello Spock. Are you ready? Oh, don’t you look so smart in that uniform!”

“Spock, will you sit with me in the car? Georgia, you’re the nearest - could you shut Proust in the kitchen? Thank you. Finbar, you’re staying with Mama, the three of you are going in the second car. Yes, you are. Georgia, have the children got their padds? Oh, you’ve got them, good. Dale, thank you – oh, I wish I didn’t have to do this!

The family to a man, or woman or child, looked at the matriarchal tower of strength in their own individual combinations of shock, distress, anxiety or sympathy. Clara instinctively moved towards her mother with outstretched hand, a gesture that was greeted with an involuntary hiss of irritation, and Clara drew back sharply in confusion. 

“Spock. You’re with me.” Evelyn Grayson swept out into the cold bleak January afternoon, without looking to check that her grandson was with her. She knew he would be and he was. On this day on which she had to commemorate and bid farewell to her husband of sixty three years, the taciturn and contained Vulcan was the only soul she felt she could bear to have with her. They sat side by side in the front of the family hover, the family jumbling into the seats behind them, no-one wanting to speak after their grandmother’s most unexpected but probably entirely predictable outburst. Evelyn turned her head to look at Spock. He looked back at her, and did not recoil from what he saw in her eyes, but instead accepted it with silent calm acknowledgment. It was a relief. She turned away and stared fixedly out of the side window, and the family traveled in silence to the University.

The ceremony, long and complex as it was, passed without a hitch. Distinguished alumni attended to speak movingly of David Grayson’s contribution to their lives and work. Hugo Lister’s key address was emotional, hilarious, sensitive and poignant in turns. Spock ignored his grandmother’s surreptitious reaching for a handkerchief and the rest of the family didn’t see it. He also ignored all the glances in his direction when, unexpectedly to him, his mother’s face appeared on the screen as, in absentia, she offered a farewell address to her father. It was a true celebration of a rich and valuable life. Spock was able to see its worth whilst still wishing that it was not happening, or at least that he had not had to attend. It was not the Vulcan way, to summon dignitary after dignitary to publicly express predictable emotions. 

However, his grandfather had been a Human. That fact was coming home to Spock loud and clear, as he sat, upright, motionless, resplendent and blue in the front row amidst his momentarily silent Human family.

The University orchestra and choral ensemble concluded the event with a performance of one of Professor Grayson’s favourite musical works, and then huge double doors slid silently apart at the rear of the hall, and the assembled visitors were invited in next door, to meet, greet, relax, eat, drink, talk, in Violet’s case run around, and continue the celebration of the life of a man whom Spock was beginning to wish he had known better. He accepted a glass of Altair water, strolled the food tables in a manner he knew would deceive anyone watching into thinking that he was intending to eat, and gracefully, infinitesimally slowly and deliberately made his way to the very edge of the room.

Evelyn Grayson, he noted, was never alone. As one person left her side another would arrive, presumably to offer complimentary remarks about her late husband and condolences upon her loss. He had not heard every word spoken thus far, but enough to judge that they would all run upon those lines. Finbar and Violet were playing a hazardous variety of what looked like a version of the game ‘catch’ which his mother had long ago described to him; they were dodging around guests, hiding behind skirts, dashing away shrieking if one of them approached too near the other. Most of the guests around whom the children were dodging were holding glasses, plates, cutlery and other potentially lethal weaponry, but none had yet been dropped on the head of a child. Spock wondered why the children were permitted to run around in such an unruly and dangerous manner, and he looked around for their mother. Georgia was deep in conversation across the hall with one of the speakers at the service, and appeared completely uninterested in what her children were doing.

Extraordinary.

There were fifty SIX minutes left of the scheduled time for this reception, and every chance that it might run on for longer than that. Everyone he could see looked engrossed and engaged in their respective conversations, and the drinks trays were emptying and being refilled at a significant rate. Spock was aware that they may well be many people who would like to talk to him, for one reason or another, but he was also fully aware that he had no wish at all to speak to any of them. 

He found himself by an elevator; he slipped in and directed it once again to the warm, welcoming and mercifully silent roof garden. The door slid open, and he stepped out onto the lushly bordered walkway. Spock stood still, looked upwards at the vaunting glass roof, breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly and thoroughly and only then started to stroll, as aimlessly as before, among the luxuriant and scented beds.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned slowly. The blond botanist, minus her streak of soil, the cloud of blond hair tied neatly back from her face, smiled hesitantly at him. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she glanced down at the floor and then back at him again. “Couldn’t stay away?” she asked. Spock didn’t know what to reply, so said nothing. “I noticed you’d gone,” she went on.

“Are you not expected to be performing your duties at the reception?” He was in truth concerned rather than critical, although that may not have been apparent. Her formal attire suggested that she had indeed been working, and he was concerned that there may be repercussions to her absenting herself from work. She smiled however, and shook her head.

“No, it’ll be fine.”

“But Leila….”

“You remembered!”

“Remembered….?”

“My name!”

Spock’s expression was one of genuine confusion. “Obviously,” he said, with no intent at sarcasm. Why should she be surprised that he remember a not very complicated fact he had been told only yesterday? “You told me.”

Her broad smile told him that yet again he had said something out of synch with customary Human conversation. Yet her expression and tone were kind, as she explained, “ They overstaffed – the boss-man told me they didn’t need me any more. I’m free as a bird. Let’s walk.” And she started to stroll, and he found himself falling into step with her and walking amongst the rampant and exotic flower beds while she pointed out her favourites and told him of the difficulties of propagation and the joys of vegetative intimacy amongst her plant proteges, and he listened with puzzlement but undeniable interest. Then they sat together on a bench in the centre of the huge and otherwise silent conservatory, and talked. 

Certainly, most of the talking was initially from her. Yet, perhaps because of the seeming remoteness of their setting, the fact that he had contrived to escape from the activity which had been planned for him and had found himself almost concealed behind huge and grasping shrubs in a hot and faraway garden, and her apparent innocent fascination with just how he came to be there, Spock too found himself talking. He explained how it was that the Human professor, for whom that grand memorial service was being held even as they sat by the flower beds, was his grandfather. When she asked him, he told her about the rambling and noisy family in the big house in Seattle. He even told her a very little about the even bigger house in Shik’har, but only in passing, as there were some things which he had in fact never verbalized to anyone in his life. Either they knew these things or they did not but he could not or would not speak of them, even to a stranger who sat with him in the roof garden of the university and whose every glance and smile suggested that she was utterly and charmingly and, to him, inexplicably enthralled by him. 

“What’s it called?”

“Proust.”

“Like the writer? A la… whatever?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.”

He looked up at her and met her gaze, and found that he did not want to break the connection. The realization struck him, hard, and he did not know why he was experiencing this wish to continue to look into her eyes. Yet he was, and conversation ceased as the wide blue joined with the piercing dark. 

She broke the suspended silence. “I think that the party will be finishing soon.”

Without breaking his gaze, he gave a slight nod. “In fourteen point four minutes, allowing for….”

“When do you go back to your ship?”

The mutual gaze held fast. “I had planned to return tomorrow, as my duty is done.”

“Your duty?”

“Yes. In coming here. My family….” He trailed off. He was aware of the discrepancy between her Human expectation of his attitude and the Vulcan reality. He was aware of the potential for… disappointing her. His lips tightened.

“Is that when you have to be back?”

“I….. No.” The Vulcan propensity for truth drove him to honesty, however uncomfortable it may be. “I am permitted seven Terran days leave, should I wish to take them.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Wish to take them?”

The pause stretched out. “I had not considered…..”

“Why not stay a while? We… could…”

Spock looked into the radiant hope in the aesthetically perfect face which he knew others would call beautiful. He thought about spending additional days in the chaos of his family home. He shook his head. “My captain will expect me back on board. I told him that I would return tomorrow.”

“But you’re allowed more leave.”

“I am, but…”

“What’s his name?”

“His…? What is whose name?”

“Your captain. What’s he called?”

Spock felt that this conversation was slipping away from him, but he clung to a question which was unambiguous, although unexpected, and which he could therefore answer without difficulty. “Pike. Captain Christopher Pike.”

“Does he like you?”

This was too confusing, and Spock found no way to be as diplomatic as he felt he should. “It is irrelevant what Captain Pike thinks of me, Leila. He is my commanding officer….”

“I just wondered. Well, why don’t you call him and tell him you’d like to take the rest of your leave. You can do that, can’t you.”

“I…He is nevertheless expecting my return tomorrow, and to delay it would be irresponsible. No. I shall return.” His deep and slightly ragged breath was entirely involuntary. “I appreciate your suggestion, but…” There fell another pause., which Spock broke by getting to his feet. “I should return to the reception; they will be leaving soon.”

She simply nodded, making no effort to reply, nor even to stand up as he had. He therefore bowed his head graciously to her, and turned and started to move towards the elevators. He looked back at her. “It has been… enjoyable to meet you, Leila.”

She nodded again, and tipped her head on one side by way of farewell. Her eyes were sad. Spock turned again and walked away, retracing his steps to the edge of the conservatory area. He reached the doors. He stretched out one hand to summon the elevator to take him back down to the reception, to the family, to the end of his visit to earth, to the end of this period out of his life. To the end of the quiet and confidential talks with the golden girl who liked plants and who liked him. To the end of his moments of stolen freedom from the expectations of everyone around him. To the end of those strange and perplexing sensations of a warmth and an exciting disturbance which he didn’t recognise and didn’t try to name. 

He stood, unmoving, by the elevator doors. He applied logic to the situation, and concluded that he would return to the ship the next day. He continued to stand by the elevator doors. He heard his name, in impeccable Vulcan, paging him to meet the family in the entrance hall. He found that his breath had caught; and logic fled. Spock returned to the seat he had been sharing with the botanist. She had not moved, and now she looked up at him, her expression as bland as any Vulcan’s.

“I will meet you here tomorrow. What time will be convenient for you?”

The words were brief, harsh, barked – still her smile was of such joy you might have thought the sun had come out. And his heart answered her, silently.

“How about 4.30? My seminar ends then.”

The sound of his name being called again broke the transfixed and silent communication. He nodded. She did too. He turned away yet again, strode to the elevator doors and this time summoned it to return him to the family. The babble of conversation as he met them was welcome. It drowned out the astonished questions in his mind.

 

FOUR

He did not take Leila back to the family home, not at any time. She suggested it, and some of the family, when they realised that their Vulcan cousin was meeting a friend, also exhorted him to bring her home, to join them for dinner, or for tea. He did not; the balancing act would have ceased to be so had he been required to deal with their ongoing onslaught at the same time as trying to meet Leila’s overtures of friendship in such a way that he could retain his own values without incurring the pain of her sad eyes, or the slight furrows of a frown between the clear brows. So he made sure that he only had to contend with the two scenarios one at a time.

In the house, a routine of sorts evolved, and Spock appreciated routines. He would meditate in the mornings, after having removed the two cats from his room where they were sure to have spent the night snuggled against him. He found he had no objection to his night time companions. The strange vibrating sound which they both made was somewhat soothing and in no way disturbing, and their warmth against his sides was welcome. On those occasions when he touched them, he received from each of them impressions of satiated satisfaction and sanguine peace, utterly self contained and in fact rather enviable. Spock found that he rather respected Purr and Miaow. He also found that they shared his opinion of Proust. One evening three days into his extended stay, when he had returned late from meeting Leila, Purr, Miaow and Spock together had to make a bolt for the sanctuary of his room to avoid Proust’s rapturous and slobbery welcome. Spock slammed the door shut and the three listened to the thud of the furry body against the closed door and the plaintive whines of frustration as they sat together on his bed. As Purr rubbed her body against his hand he picked up an unmistakable wave of complete contempt for the noisy and affectionate bundle outside the door. Feline eyes blinked into his in supercilious complicity.

So, his nights were spent with the cats and his thoughts, and his mornings were for solitary meditation, which the family learned to respect, even Finbar. His afternoons, and then his evenings as well, were spent with Leila. He did meet her at 4.30 on the afternoon after his grandfather’s memorial service, in the conservatory, and once again they got no further. They strolled, they sat and they talked, and Spock found himself torn into two; one part of him experienced endless fascination with her expressions, her laugh, her eyes, her words, her movements; and the other part of him never ceased to challenge and query these unaccountable and unVulcan reactions. He decided that this would be their last meeting, and that he would return to his ship. He met her again the next day. This time they had a meal together, a lunch, in a warm, bustling, noisy and Human restaurant where no-one pressured them to leave their congenial and private table in the corner. They sat, and ate, and talked some more. 

“I always come here. I love it.”

“The proprietor knows you.”

“I said – I always come here. I sometimes work all afternoon and he just keeps feeding me coffee.”

“That is…. convenient for you.” He paused. “And not healthy.”

She laughed. “So what’s new.”

Spock considered this. “I do not know.”

Leila frowned in surprise, and then laughed. Spock drowned in the contrasting expressions, as she explained. “It’s just an expression, Spock. I mean, I’m not really that healthy. I mean, I am, but I don’t think about it….oh, I don’t know.” She smiled warmly at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Don’t worry about it.”

Spock speared a few of the ingredients of his salad onto his fork and put them into his mouth, and realised that he had not taken his eyes off her face as he did so. He also thought that she realised it at the same time, and once again, as seemed often to happen between them, their gazes caught and could not let go. She broke the silence this time. “Do you think it’ll be long before you get promotion?”

Spock wondered if there were any limit to her ability to ask the most unexpected questions. He paused to think, unaware that his fork was still in midair. “Promotion?”

“Well, yes. Science Officer is pretty high up, isn’t it. Will you have to wait a long time to move up?”

“I have no intention of attempting to ‘move up’. I am entirely content with my duties as they stand.”

Those eyes widened again. “But, don’t you want to end up a captain?”

This time there was no hesitation in his reply. “I do not. I have no wish to command. I do not foresee that changing. I joined….” Spock paused abruptly, as he realised that he had just been about to divulge a deeply personal detail about himself as though it were the most normal thing in the universe to do. His surprise at that impulse rendered him completely speechless. 

“You joined…?” Leila prompted.

Spock shook his head, and returned his attention to his salad. 

“Oh come on. What were you going to say? You joined what?”

He took a deep breath, and then calmly and carefully returned his gaze to the girl across the table; calm, bland, inscrutable. “I joined Starfleet because of the opportunities it offered for scientific exploration and research, and I have by no means exhausted those opportunities.”

Leila frowned in puzzlement at the apparent difficulty that such an innocuous reply had caused him; yet she could see that she was not going to find out any more about it. “I thought about it, joining Starfleet.”

“Then why did you not do so?”

She smiled wryly at him. “Because I didn’t, and don’t, think I was good enough.” She raised her hand to wave away his attempted reply and softened the gesture with another smile. “There are so many botanists in Star Fleet, and at the time I had a look into it I just didn’t think I had anything special to offer. It might be different now, but…” She wrinkled her nose as she searched for words; Spock found himself captivated. “I don’t think I want the whole military side of it, you know, the discipline, the fighting, all that, you know?” She looked at him for assent before continuing. “I’m a botanist. That’s all I’m interested in, really. I don’t need the rest of it. Do you know what I mean?”

He nodded. 

“Do you like all that stuff?”

She had done it again; yet the question was understandable in the context of the conversation and deserved an answer. “My liking for it or otherwise is not relevant. I chose to join Starfleet, and accepted that I was joining a military organization..”

“Yeah right.”  
His initial reaction to this apparently unambiguous response was that he was pleased that she accepted his word. Her refusal to meet his gaze, the snappy aggression with which she tore off a hunk of bread, the clatter with which she laid down her knife, told even this Vulcan that she was nevertheless displeased about something he had said.

He was genuinely confused. “I…Leila?”

“I bet you don’t like all that stuff. You’re supposed to be pacifists, Vulcans, aren’t you, but you have to fight all the time. And kill people? Maybe? And all that macho stuff with the others there – I bet you don’t like that.” Eyebrows and chin raised in friendly defiance; Spock sat, salad forgotten, wondering if the sensation flooding him could accurately be described as anger. He looked at her across the table. The blue eyes opened wide again, but this time the effect was not appealing. And, this time, the silence was not comfortable nor intriguingly transfixed. 

“My decision to join Starfleet was my own and is not subject to argument or scrutiny. I am in no way obliged to explain my motivations, to you or to anyone else.”

He watched her as she swallowed, looked down at her food and then back at him. “Spock…..”

His gaze remained level; the unnamed sensation continued to swirl. 

“Spock. I’m sorry. I wasn’t meaning….. I am sorry. I didn’t mean to make you angry.”

Ah. So he had perhaps been correct. However….

“I am a Vulcan. Anger is an emotion, and I do not experience emotions.”

“No. I’m sorry. And I am sorry for… just now. Please forgive me, I was…. wrong. Spock – I don’t want to fall out with you.” The blue gaze was pleading. Spock knew that he was completely confused. He did not know why her remarks had stirred him so, or why he found himself relieved to hear her clearly heartfelt apology, or why he had found himself in such an extraordinary situation which involved having a beautiful botanist groveling for his approval. Or, indeed, why he was so quick to give it.

“I… it is no matter,” he said, quietly. He rediscovered his salad, and jabbed at it once more with his fork, before looking back up at her again through his lashes. “I…it is forgotten.”

She smiled at him. The room became a little brighter. “Can we meet again tomorrow? You go back the day after.” She gave a small laugh which did not sound at all happy. “I’d hate for us to finish on a bad note.” It was her turn to busy herself with coffee cup and spoon.

“Yes, we can meet tomorrow. I will need the following morning to pack my belongings and…my family will expect….” He trailed off in uncharacteristic vagueness, and she laughed again, but this time genuinely.

“Families!”

“What about them?

“I mean, they’re a lot of trouble.”

Spock did not deem it safe or politic to reply to that remark.

“Come to my apartment and I’ll cook you a meal. Will you do that, will that be alright?”

He considered. A Human would have said that alarm bells were ringing, but Spock dismissed the quirk of unease without any attempt to identify it. He could see no logical reason for refusing the invitation.

He accepted, addresses were exchanged, and the arrangement was made.

 

FIVE

“It’s nothing elaborate. Or Vulcan.” She glanced up at him, and then back to the contents of the pan she was stirring. Then up at him again. She seemed to be waiting for some kind of reply.

“I require neither to be able to find a meal acceptable.”

She smiled, gave a brief laugh. “It’s just a big vegetable soup. As it’s so cold, I thought that would be alright. I threw everything in. And we’ve got bread, and some fruit. I grew it.” This time the smile was broad, with pride.

“You grew the bread?”

“No, silly. The fruit! It’s shuwanacca. You’ve met her, in the conservatory.”

Spock felt a little uncomfortable at the prospect of eating fruit from a plant to which he had apparently been personally introduced, but rationalized that ‘she’ would not have been harmed by her fruit being picked. He then wondered why he was thinking in such terms, and decided that he had perhaps spent too much time in the company of Leila Kalomi. “It sounds a very suitable meal. Would you like any assistance?”

“Ah, no thank you, I’ve got it.” She speared a piece of vegetable with a fork, and then another. “It’s done. Can you pass me those two bowls over there? Tell me when to stop.” And when his bowl was brim full of deliciously savoury smelling soup, he told her to stop. The two sat at her small table, bread between them on the table and a bottle of wine to one side. Spock declined the wine when it was offered and he sipped at water. Leila drained one glass and poured herself another. The meal passed in comparative silence, and then they adjourned to floor cushions with the remains of shuwanacca’s fruit and the quarter full bottle of wine. They leaned back on the cushions, replete. 

“Thank you for an excellent meal.”

“Did you like it?” 

“I did. I am still enjoying the novelty of non-cycled food.”

“You go back tomorrow.” It was not a question, so he saw no need to reply nor to acknowledge a fact on which they had already agreed. “I’ll miss you.”

She was looking at him. The wide blue eyes were fixed upon him, and he dared to meet them with his own. And he could not answer her. His throat, his tongue, were frozen into immobility. 

“Spock? I….” She took a gulp of wine, and looked at him again. “I will miss you.” He took a shuddering in-breath, and she heard it. “And you’ll miss me too. Won’t you. I know you will. Spock, why can’t you say so?” Those eyes were glistening. Spock swallowed, and made himself speak to her, as he was not a person who ever enjoyed the pain of another.

“Leila, I….” What could he say? That he would miss her too? That all the minutes spent in her company had been as a gift from another realm, an illicit gift which he could not admit to anyone in his life, which he could not accept? That he could not even understand what had been happening to him, that he was confused and enchanted in equal measure and that that was all so wrong that he had to deny it or lose his identity? “I am sorry.”

“S… Sorry? Spock, I know you’ve…” Even Leila knew better than to accuse the young Vulcan sitting on her floor of feeling, however certain she was that he did, and had. She ran out of words. “Spock – please!”

Her wine glass was on the floor beside her, she had twisted towards him and she had thrown her arms around him and her face was pressed against his shoulder. He had no time to slam up his shields; her sweetness and anguish engulfed him. “No!” He in turn twisted away, and sprang to his feet in one desperate movement. “Leila, I cannot!” She heard his voice, hoarse with what emotion she did not know.

She looked up at him, her tears tracking unchecked down her cheeks. “Why? Why can’t you? Spock, I love you, and I know…”

“Leila… I can not! I … I am… not…”

She waited for the rest but it didn’t come. “Why can’t you? Why can’t you admit you feel something for me? All these days together, we’ve…” She had to stop there, she realised that she too was unable to name their shared experience, and she could only give it the only name she knew. The only name even she knew he would reject. She saw him shake his head, and turn away.

“I am not… free.” 

He was not free. He could feel the Bond, cold as titanium, a harsh titanium wall that stood high and strong between his desires and his fate. He was not free. She must not touch him again, he must not let her. Her every touch could destroy his shields, and lead him to fantasies of staying here, on Earth, in her apartment, here with her and never coming out and never meeting anyone else again. This is what she made him want, this is what he wanted, her frantic embrace had shown him this –

Yet, he was not free. 

He looked down at her. His brown eyes dared again to meet hers. For some reason, as illogical as everything else that was crowding in on him on this evening, the naming of his wishes had strengthened him. The knowledge had banished the confusion, if not the pain. “Leila, I am sorry. I am not free. I am… Leila, I must go. I am sorry.” Why could he say nothing else? Nothing else would do. Nothing else was safe.

She was standing now, facing him, the blue eyes awash but still engulfing. She reached out her arms again, and this time he was ready. “I love you.” Both of them seemed to keep repeating themselves.

“I know.”

Her arms wound tightly round his neck, squeezed, released him. What could he say to let her know… Was there anything? Or did she already know?

“Spock?”

He looked at her, interrogatively. 

“Was I wrong?”

She heard him sigh as he looked down, as his eyes closed briefly. He turned, moved past her and crossed to the door. He looked back at her, for the last time.

“No,” he said. Then he opened the door, and left the embracing comfort that was the company of Leila Kalomi. 

 

 

SIX

Spock had neither slept nor meditated by the time he ventured downstairs on his last day in his grandmother’s house. No-one noticed. Vulcans could go without sleep for longer than Humans without deterioration in performance. He placed his neatly packed holdall in the hall, and moved slowly into the sitting room. There, he stood, hands behind his back, at parade rest.

“Spock,” his grandmother said. It was all she said, and seemed merely to be an acknowledgment of his presence in the room. His eyes moved to her, and he inclined his head.

The family were assembled. Clara and Owen sat together on one of the sofas, Owen for once not engrossed in some reading matter, and Estelle and Georgia sat on another, Violet on Georgia’s lap with her finger in her mouth. “I’m sorry you couldn’t have met Greg. I’d hoped he could get here before you left.” Georgia looked up at him, but Spock could not find anything worth saying in reply so again he remained silent. Proust was for once also silent, and merely slapped his tail mournfully on the carpet.

“Thank you for coming to the service. I’m so glad you were there.”

“It was an honour…Grandma.” He looked down at his feet briefly, and then back at her again. “I wish that I could have spent more time with him.” It was the truth. 

“Spock?” Estelle got to her feet and came over to him. He was fiercely and urgently concerned that she was going to hug him and he looked at her with an expression designed to pre-empt any such notion, but she did no such thing, and simply said,” I’ve so enjoyed seeing you again. Please don’t let’s leave it so long next time.”

His family’s talent for unanswerable comments was inexhaustible. She surely knew that he had few opportunities for social trips. 

He knew that she was aware. She was only expressing her feelings. She smiled, and returned to her seat, but Spock made a move to indicate that he must leave, and so she stayed where she was.

“Bye bye Spock.”

The small voice from behind his knees was unmistakably sad. He turned, and looked down at Finbar. Another pair of glistening eyes.

“Finbar,” Spock addressed the child, from his full height. The child gazed up at him, grief in his face. “You must work hard at your studies, so that we may meet again in Starfleet.”

The tears ran unchecked down the face of the little boy, but he nodded. “You bet I will,” he managed, and then, visibly drawing himself together, straightened and took a deep breath. He then raised his right hand in an almost passable Vulcan salute. “Live long and proper,” he said, solemnly and then looked across the room at his mother, who nodded and smiled, her own eyes filling up. Spock raised his own hand in salute.

“Peace and long life, Finbar.”

The silence was broken by Evelyn, who rose to her feet. “Spock, we’ll show you to the car.” She moved across the room, her cane silent on the deep carpet, and Spock turned to accompany her out of the room into the entrance hall. The rest of the family followed, Proust tailing silently behind, and paused as Spock stopped and looked up the staircase. Purr and Miaow were sitting side by side at the top of the stairs, silent, inscrutable, staring down at the Vulcan. He looked back up at them; they blinked at him, and then both turned away and returned to their usual place on the bed in the spare room. 

“Will you look at that!” exclaimed Owen, illogically, as the sight was no longer to be seen, but Spock knew that the words were not the important part. He looked back at Owen, and then crossed the hall and picked up his bag. 

“I thank you all for your hospitality. It has been… rewarding to meet you all again.”

“Say hello to Amanda for us.”

“I will.”

“I hope you have a good trip back to your ship.”

He nodded.

“I hope it wasn’t too cold for you.”

He raised his eyebrow at Estelle, and the family all laughed. They had come in that short time to recognise some of his expressions and to value them. 

“The car is outside.”

“It is good of you to put it at my disposal.”

“Not at all. We’ll send for it later.”

There seemed nothing more to say. He raised his hand once more in salute. “Your friendship honours me.” He turned, opened the front door, and left the house swiftly. No need for them all to freeze on the driveway, he reflected to himself, in justification. He stepped hastily into the car and pressed for the door to close behind him. “Central Transport, Seattle.” The car lifted off. 

Spock was blind to the cityscape passing by his window. The turmoil and confusion in his mind was beyond description. He sat with his hands clasped fiercely together on his lap, every muscle and sinew taut to the point of pain, aware of the one word, the one concept, which echoed through his being in reproach, in contemptuous and inglorious reproach. “Contamination.”

The way had been laid during his few days in the cacophonous embrace of his family, to survive which he had been forced to reach out for meanings, interpretations – understanding. He had studied, and observed, and had achieved some measure of understanding. And a kind of sympathy, and then a kind of respect. And then he had met the Human, Leila, all ready – armed? Or weakened? with his understanding, his respect, his sympathy, and her blue gaze had met no obstacle. 

Spock’s hands wound together still more tightly. Pain stabbed all through him, pain he recognised without difficulty as emotional agony, and he knew that he could not endure this again. He permitted himself to recall the sensation of her sheltering and exciting arms around him, he reached again for the glorious homecoming of her face nestling into his neck and his cheek leaning against her hair. He felt her body against his. And then he consigned it all to a pocket of his past and he left it there. 

Captain Christopher Pike would welcome back on board the Vulcan who had left the ship six Terran days before. Just as upright, dedicated, rigid and, of course, just as lacking in any emotion, as he had been before. Just as lacking in any understanding of emotion in others. That was what they all thought, and that is what they would get. 

Never again. He would not endure this pain again. 

Spock took a deep breath, and exhaled, fiercely, fully, and his hands finally unclasped, as he turned his cool gaze to wintry Seattle as it sped past the window of the Grayson family car.

END


End file.
